


Fire meet Gasoline

by Dreua



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Relationships, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dirty Dancing, Eating Disorders, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Emotional insecurities, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks and Nightmares, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Meis has fallen and Meis has fallen hard, Mild Language, Panic Attacks, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a different take on Meis and Gueira's relationship, dancing around eachother till the sun don't shine, i swear they do love eachother, just can't seem to say it yet, life after the Parnassus, perceived one-sided pining, these two will be the death of me, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreua/pseuds/Dreua
Summary: Because, for once, Meis is not all right--has not been for quite some time despite always appearing calm and collected.  And, for once, the ex-general wonders if maybe, just maybe, he isn't as perfect (as happy) as he's let others perceive himself to be.With the Parnassus experience long since past, it's time for the two former Mad Burnish generals to fully grasp exactly where they stand, together, apart, whatever their little world wants them to be, through thick and thin, they were--are-- comrades, and maybe (just maybe) something more.
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare), Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos (background)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 74





	1. For you, the World

**Author's Note:**

> If I've missed anything in the tags, please let me know as I've been wracking my mind trying to figure out everything to put there...and I likely messed up somewhere.  
> Meis and Gueira's relationship is unique, and I really wanted to write something with these two ever since first having seen Promare in theaters. As scared and uncertain as I am about this whole fic. . . . here goes nothing (thank you to my lovely sister, Seo and Jellybean for listening to my screeching through this entire thing).

_. . . . and, even without the thrumming—the whirring of distant engines beating against cool metal—he can still somehow feel the presence of the man beside him. Can feel the fear threading through the vast void that separates them—the undulating power wreaking havoc upon the very individual he’s vowed so many times to protect. Except, for once, he can’t reach out—can’t even protest, let alone form coherent sentences between the blinding light and the burning sensation taking root inside his stomach. The need to join their hands together, to desperately whisper that everything will be all right, resounds long and hard throughout his entire being, its presence daunting yet oddly calming._

_He tells himself that, for starters . . . ._

_he has to believe they will pull through this. . . ._

_. . . . they will survive . . . ._

_they’ve been through worse, together. . . ._

_And yet . . . ._

_He accepts the notion that he is, beyond a doubt, utterly useless given the current situation. Accepts that, at any given second, his companion might cease to exist and he’d never know until the door opens (if the door ever opens, that is). Until he’s faced with the image of burnt up ash, nothingness._

_. . . . and maybe a part of him almost believes this will happen . . . that he will be left, alone, torn and wounded._

_The escalating pain tearing his body apart from the inside out has him all but shrieking until his throat goes dry, tingles, drawing out strength he’s not even sure he still has. Power he can barely fathom, let alone use, courses through his veins as he attempts to focus on the smallest pinpricks of grey dancing within his peripheral—fibers dissipating into the confides of a metal chamber he’s become horribly acquainted with._

_When his world morphs into darkness, he’s left with the notion that maybe—just maybe—this is what peace feels like._

_He’s drifting between nightmarish dreams and consciousness, mind reeling against the makings of what he assumes to be a migraine—though part of him admits the splitting ache is from anything but. He’s stopped feeling his fingers, let alone his arms, the biting of metal clasps around his wrists having given way to chaffed, greying, flesh. He’s stopped feeling his companion’s presence. Has stopped caring what will happen to himself, knows damn well that he could be—should be—dead, even. And, if he has to strain in order to hear the faintest of voices outside, the softest of murmurings giving way to bright lights and grasping hands, hell, even he can’t imagine just why anyone would want to rescue him._

_. . . . and he wants to tell whoever it is that hoists his bruised and beaten body up by the shoulders, that they should be helping someone else. They should let him remain and rot, because the growing fear of being useless has come back full force and he can’t help but believe that the one person he’s vowed to protect, might be gone._

_‘Is he . . .?’_

_'No, he’s alive, they’re both alive. Barely, though.’_

Meis wakes with a start, scream tucked tight within his throat, sweat beading upon his brow as he all but frantically glances around within the darkness, eyes searching for whatever demon happened to come calling during the night. He’s met with a deafening silence, save for the ever present humming of a dehumidifier tucked tight against the far side wall—the pleasant blue light illuminating the room with a faint glow, casting uneven shadows across the expanse of their shared bed. He trails an unsteady hand across his face, fingers lingering against his lips, noting how his breath hitches at just the right level to be considered worrisome. His chest constricts, lungs shuddering to keep an even flow of anything remotely close to air coming in and out of his body, and he’s all but locked in place, body numbing. 

He tries to force himself to believe that he is okay—that the sensation of pins and needles shooting across his back is normal, that he isn’t about to go into a full blown panic attack wearing only his underwear, uneven inky black tresses ghosting across his vision, the bun atop his head having slowly unraveled itself.

He tries, ultimately fails. The urge to puke outweighing the need to stay in bed.

The feeling of cool porcelain against his hands is comforting in and of itself, even as he dry heaves into the toilet, even as his hair sticks to his cheeks, stray strands finding their way into his mouth in the process. He’s managed to barely shut the door, keeping the light off so as not to blur his vision, body already caving from tension and the onslaught of unneeded weight invading his head.

He’s managed to bump into the nightstand, the lamp, and everything in between their shared bed and the now welcoming presence of the bathroom floor, though he wages the redhead has yet to wake up despite every clamoring sound he’s made. How Gueira can sleep through even the roughest of storms, even Meis can’t fully comprehend—a blessing and a curse, one he’s more than willing to take at the moment, if he’s being honest.

“Meis?”

Gueira’s voice, sleep laden and overly soft, makes its way to Meis’s ears despite the raven haired man hoping beyond hope that the usually boisterous redhead would’ve remained asleep.

“ _Meis_ . . .?” There’s hesitation in the way Gueira knocks on the door, in the way his tone lilts to something bordering concern—fear. He’s yet to peer around the blockade, has yet to breach the distance between their bedroom and the bathroom, and yet despite all of this, Meis can feel his aura reaching out to cradle and protect his own. “Knock once if you’re okay, twice if you want me in there with you?”

And, there it is.

Meis scrunches his eyebrows together, chews his bottom lip until he tastes blood coiling thick upon his tongue. Makes to shove his foot against the door, because, he doesn’t quite know what he wants, and yet his hand moves of its own accord, fingers tapping. Once. Twice.

“I think I’m . . .” it’s all the raven haired man can manage, voice a jumbled mess of nerves, gaze half focused on his companion that has all but paused, face paling in the doorway. And he finds it almost funny, the way in which the shorter man seemingly tilts this way and that—or maybe he’s the one swaying, he can’t be certain. But, his world is slowly turning upside down and his stomach is complaining, and if the blinding flash behind his eyes means anything, he’s about to meet the floor head on.

He heaves.

Gueira is quick, always has been, and the way in which his arms blanket around slender shoulders, fingers kneading up and down tense muscle, breath ghosting across the other’s cheek, only helps to ease back the wretched gasp forming against Meis’s lips. “I’ve got you.”

_‘He’s really bad, Meis.’_

_‘What do you mean, bad?’_

_‘. . . the doctor said he might not . . . .’_

Calloused fingers run their way through dampened locks, weaving a path for a boar bristle brush they’d fought tooth and nail over buying month’s prior. Gueira has positioned himself with his chest flush against Meis’s back, legs secure around either side of the other’s waist, the feeling of his companion’s spine against his skin, a cause for worry. The redhead hums deep within his throat, uneven tune going against the bristles rhythmic flow, the way in which he all but pampers midnight blue hues, stopping only to gently pry away a knot here and there.

“Your hairs really growing out. I like it.” He leans further into the other’s space, props the brush up on the couch in favor of using his hands, fingers pressing firm but steady at the base of Meis’s neck. He eases feather light caresses behind his companion’s ears, each gentle press rewarding him with the fluttering of darkened eyelashes, unreadable expression softening.

“You ever wonder why baking shows are so popular?” Gueira muses, eyeing the television while letting his chin fall against Meis’s shoulder, the softest puffs of breath landing against semi heated skin. He feels the other shift, stiffen, notes the way slender muscles instantly jolt awake—wonders if the other will move away, instantly relaxing the second Meis heaves a sigh and lets his full weight fall back, head lulling.

“ . . . because people love watching others burn brownies?” Meis’s response comes as a rasped out hiss, throat constricting around each syllable long after he’s let the words leave his mouth. He cracks an eye open, squinting against the low light of their living room, fishes around on either side of Gueira’s legs for the remote. Promptly turns the television off without second thought. “Too loud.”

Another hum from the redhead, arms snaking down to tighten about an almost too delicate waist—and, he finds it kind of troublesome, that, despite living a somewhat normal life, the dark haired man has yet to really put on any weight.

“You want to eat something?” He wiggles a finger into the crease of Meis’s side, just above his hip, lets himself take a small victory in the way the other tries to wiggle free only to huff out a half-hearted laugh.

“Not hungry.” Even if he were, Meis knows he wouldn’t be able to keep the food down—not with the way his stomach has yet to settle. “Tea sounds nice, though.” He adds as an afterthought, feeling the hands upon his waist loosen their hold.

“Lavender or chamomile?”

“Surprise me.” Whether it’s from his body trying to catch up, or something more, Meis makes a mental note of the way his chest clenches upon seeing the redhead slowly making his way towards the kitchen, the smallest of smiles dusting across his face.

It takes Meis a week to fully readjust. Two before he can even find the courage to get back into bed with the redhead, and another three before he can finally say he’s yet to have another nightmare. Though the ever present pounding of his chest whenever they happen to lay a bit too close, arms and legs barely touching, peachy tinted skin overlapping his own fairer complexion, has him wondering on more than one occasion if his ability to hide his emotions has gone weak.

“Scoot over, your feet are cold.” He’s teasing, Meis can tell from the way his voice carries hints of hushed laughter, though the dark haired man moves none the less, hovering dangerously close to the edge of their shared bed.

They’ve called it a short night, opting to stay inside rather than taking Lio and Galo’s offer to come over for pizza and a movie. 

_‘Meis is tired.’_

_‘Gueira is exhausted.’_

_‘Sorry, Boss.’_

Whether the former Mad Burnish leader believes either of them, they could care less.

A burst of red falls into Meis’s peripheral, freshly puffed from showering, still smelling oddly of vanilla despite Gueira denying having used scented shampoo. On instinct, Meis reaches out to touch a portion of frizzy strands fluttering dangerously close to the other’s eyelashes, lets his fingers linger a second longer than planned. Draws in a tightened breath of air, holds it until he feels his companion shift, broadened shoulders taking over his line of sight. His face stings, the palm of his hand igniting despite no longer possessing his flame.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, Meis laying upon his back, eyes scanning the expanse of the ceiling, arms tucked against his stomach. He lets a strand of agitated sighs escape from between his lips, jostling ever so slightly in place. Gueira shifts once, twice, flopping around until he faces the dark haired man, lopsided grin overtaking his features.

“Hey.”

An air of uncertainty washes over Gueira’s features, blue light illuminating peach tinted skin, the slight curve of his nose and the way his lips seemingly appear to be fixed in a permanent pout. He steadies himself upon his elbows, hovers close enough to Meis so that, if he wanted to, he could reach out and tangle his hand within darkened locks. He doesn’t—won’t.

“What are you thinking about in that head of yours, hm?” Fiery eyes meet darkened hues, concern pooling, frown etching its way onto his face. “Meis, you can talk to me, you know. Through thick and thin, remember?” And this time he does reach out, tentative—testing the water before taking the plunge—brushing aside inky blue bangs, watching with mild interest as Meis turns to meet his gaze, lips parting, heat blossoming upon his cheeks.

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Gueira’s voice is soft, too soft, far too caring for his usually rambunctious character. “Meis, please . . .”

Meis steals himself, gathers his thoughts and lets what little faults he has break away. “You ever just feel tired?” He chews his bottom lip, waves a hand through the air for emphasis. “Like, you’re running on overdrive and can’t keep up with yourself,” he takes a steadying gulp of air, sits upright and faces the redhead beside him, heart on his sleeve, the tiniest of fracture lines barely visible upon his person.

“I’m tired, Gueira.” Every wall Meis harbors slowly chips away in the sound of his voice straining, the way he catches himself wanting to laugh despite feeling like complete shit. “I can’t . . . I haven’t . . .” He doubles back into silence, wraps his arms about his waist and squeezes. “Have I always been such a failure?” His chest aches.

There are arms, tender and warm, wrapping about his shoulders, pulling him into the safety net of a bare chest until his head tucks just right under the redhead’s chin. He can feel his companion’s steady breathing, the way each exhale ghosts through his hair, tickling against his ears, and the way the smaller man shudders when Meis breaches the gap between them, bringing their foreheads together, noses pressed.

“Why are you always so good to me . . .”

Gueira doesn’t respond, merely holds the raven haired man close until he swears they’ll melt into each other, lips barely brushing against Meis’s, hands seeking a trail down the other’s back, smoothing delicate circles against his nightshirt.

Sunlight filters over midnight blue, illuminating stray strands of a haphazardly placed bun to an almost ethereal shade of lavender, cascading down to play across a slender neck before vanishing beneath a loose fitting tank top. The former General has to squint, eyes adjusting behind a pair of old sunglasses, temperature rising from having stepped onto the pavement and out of the air conditioning. Years of controlling and practically thriving as fire, couldn’t have prepared him for such drastic waves of mid-summer heat, or the profound stickiness that clings to his skin and forces him to gag with each breath. He buries a slew of curses behind his hand, takes to watching Gueira fumble with an umbrella until he hears the distinct sound of a pop and is met by a welcoming, cool, shade.

“Shall we?” And, if the redhead’s tone seems a bit more confidant—if the way in which he slowly slinks his arm around Meis’s waist, drawing him close until their shoulders bump, is any indicator—well, he won’t complain.

It feels like years since the two stepped outside, even longer since Meis felt comfortable within his own skin, let alone brave enough to reveal the zigzagging patterns of scars dancing up and down his arms—threads of memories both self-inflicted and from their time spent in the pods. For a brief second he reconsiders his choice in outfits—wonders if his pants might be too form fitting, or if the tank top appears sloppy, if he looks ill despite having tried desperately to put some meat on his bones. Feels the usual waves of nausea coiling within the pit of stomach, the way his hands begin to clam up, turning rigid against his side while the ever present beating of his heart threatens to eat its way clear out of his chest. 

He finds himself stealing close to the shorter man’s side, ducking down so that he can whisper into the other’s ear, noting the way in which his hold tightens, fingers barely dipping down beneath his belt, dusting over the smallest hint of bare skin.

They’re playing with daggers, their meaningless world having flipped upside down in the span of twenty four hours, ultimately gravitating towards the other’s orbit, toying with a closeness they’ve only chanced to touch upon—have been afraid of, for that matter.

And, Meis can’t help but _want_ to be pulled in by the once second in command. Has wanted to be for years.

“You’re stunning as always.” Spoken out of the blue, the redhead plucks a visible strand of hair behind the other’s ear, leans further into his side, nuzzling his cheek against the others. “Now, let’s go get some bagels.”

And, just like that, any lingering doubts Meis might have seemingly vanish.

Lio is the first to notice the shift in their behavior, eyebrows raising the moment he catches sight of the two walking into the bakery. Quick to pick up on the subtle way in which Gueira’s arm wraps about Meis’s waist, the way the redhead’s fingers casually rub small circles against the taller man’s hip. He watches, searching their expressions from the softest of smiles gracing the redhead’s face, to the barely there heat blossoming upon the pale canvas of Meis’s cheeks. Realizes, without a doubt, that he’s made the right choice in letting them move out of Galo’s apartment—that they’ve begun to grow despite every setback, every harsh reality that played alongside the Promare leaving, is more than enough to make Lio’s chest clench.

And, despite missing them beyond belief, he wants nothing more than to see them thrive, together.

He takes a moment to collect himself, these are his friends—his brothers—and he will do everything to make sure they feel welcome, safe. “Guys!” The once Mad Burnish leader waves them over, patting the cushion beside himself, studying their every movement until Meis sidles up beside him, throwing an arm about his shoulders like old times. 

“It’s good to see you.” Lio’s voice has softened during the time spent living with Galo, even the way in which he’s begun to carry himself is different, hardened edges giving way to semi plush curves. He’s taken to overly large outdated band t-shirts (the kind that dip just low enough to show his collarbone, lower still if he bends over), though he’s found it hard to drop his trademark leather pants and buckles, he still manages to appear almost domestic, cute even. 

“We were beginning to think you weren’t gonna show, though.” He tilts his head to the side, motioning towards his fiancé with hidden amusement as the larger man tries to balance four cups of coffee and a plate of bagels with one arm. “Gueira, would you go help Galo for me, please?” Lio places a steady hand upon Meis’s knee, squeezes ever so gently as if to say stay put, watches as the redhead hurries over to where Galo has all but given up before redirecting his gaze to the once third in command. “Have you told him yet . . .”

For someone like Lio Fotia, the ability to read his ex-general’s mind has become second nature—likewise, he’s grown accustomed to knowing when the raven haired man is hiding, and when he’s willing to be honest. Lio finds, if the sinking feeling in his stomach is any indicator, that the taller man has yet to fully relax despite his overly happy appearance.

“You’re looking good, Boss.” Meis muses, lips curling around the makings of a small smile, laugh lines crinkling. He leans back further against the couch, plants his feet on the table, attempts to look calm despite feeling like his entire stomach wants to come screaming out of his mouth. “Wedding is in, what, two months . . .” He doesn’t get to finish, Lio having placed a slender finger against his lips.

“Meis, enough.” The lime blonde’s tone shifts, softening at the edges though still holding a sense of urgency. “Talk to me.” Lavender hues search the expanse of his companion’s face, forever worrying over the dark haired man’s well being. “You haven’t told him yet, have you . . .”

Visible eye widening, the dark haired man flinches back, takes hold of Lio’s hand, clasping their fingers together, tight. “He wouldn’t . . .”

“Meis! Buddy, hey! Lio and I were worried about you for awhile there.” It’s Galo’s voice that draws the two from their conversation, boisterous tone taking on hints of concern the second the blue haired man comes into focus. “Was I interrupting something . . .?”

_'_ _He wouldn’t want me like that, Boss.’_

The text pings, bright light illuminating Lio’s phone. He draws his eyebrows together, worries his bottom lip, glances towards Gueira who’s taken to telling jokes with Galo, and sighs.

_‘I think he would.’_

Something shifts halfway through the month when they’ve far surpassed the tolerable amount of time spent alongside the rambunctious firefighter and their Boss. Something in the way their hands grasp tighter, the way their fingers linger and dance almost teasingly across the other’s skin, heat blossoming after every caress. There are whistles sounding off within their heads, glaring lights flashing behind their eyes, though neither seems to pay attention—neither seems to mind even as their lives are tossed around by mundane emotions.

They’re at a nightclub when it happens, Lio having gone off with Galo to hell knows where, leaving the two of them to their own thoughts—their own demons. The base drops halfway through Meis’s third drink, hot and heavy beats racing down his spine straight to his gut, and he finds it hard to not lean further against the counter, dress shirt dipping down low, revealing just the right amount of skin. His face flushes a healthy shade of peach, darkened lashes fluttering, mouth parting and tongue darting out to lick playfully at his bottom lip. 

Not once does his gaze leave Gueira’s.

Laughter, painfully beautiful and long past due, escapes Meis’s lips the minute he downs the remnants of his drink. He’s let his hair down for the night, inky blue hues trailing the length of his neck, falling just short of his butt, and whatever shampoo he happened to use has the redhead reeling.

“Dance with me!” There’s electricity behind his words, in the way his eye lights, seemingly catching every hint of color bouncing off the dance floor. “Gueira, come on!” His lips work around each word with a devilish smirk.

And, just like that, Meis is locking their fingers together, tugging until the shorter man can’t help but stumble out onto the crowded floor.

The way Meis sways his hips should be illegal. 

Gueira tries his hardest not to focus, hard, upon his companion’s harsh curves, the way in which Meis flows in tune with the music, what lies below his belt buckle, let alone the growing urge to crush his lips against the others, effectively kissing him senseless. He tries, even as the dark haired man circles his arms about his neck, leaning into his space, breath ghosting across his nose, landing softly upon his lips. He’s whispering something into the music, voice catching amidst the beat, visible eye softening the longer he focuses on Gueira’s face.

“Your hands go here.” He’s teasing, lips suddenly dangerously close to Gueira’s ear, the faintest hint of alcohol wafting between them, “don’t worry, I won’t break.” Meis rolls his hips ever so slightly against the redhead’s, lets their bodies mold together until they blend along with the music.

There are locks breaking, clanging and clinking together, chains derailing at an alarming speed, their small world suddenly screaming, plunging, to a deafening halt the moment Gueira truly catches sight of his companion. Florescent lights surround them, playing with midnight blue hues, Meis’s hair all but glowing within the semi-dark space. Sweat has beaded upon his forehead, the heavy scent of sweet smelling cologne suffocating, intoxicating.

Meis flashes his companion with the brightest of grins, laugh lines crinkling, visible eye sparkling—and he appears much like the man Gueira first met so many years before. Calm, collected, a sense of hidden rambunctiousness and heated desire to burn, holding the redhead in place.

Heat pools within Gueira’s stomach, coiling through his veins, seeping harsh into his cheeks until his entire face is burning, smoldering. He can hear himself whining the second the sound leaves his lips, can sense his decency as it all but ceases to exist, leaving him with nothing more than lewd thoughts and the need to curl his fists within Meis’s hair, tugging the taller man’s head down.

“Gueira?” Meis mouths the redhead’s name, calm and sweet, runs a finger down the expanse of the shorter man’s shirt, beckoning him forward, “kiss me.”

Gueira growls low and deep, bites back the urge to surge forward, counts to three and says fuck it. He can’t worry himself over possible screw ups, not when the one man he’s forever cherished is solid, and real, against his chest. His lips crash against Meis’s in a battle of teeth and tongue, sweat and roaming hands. He leaves his sense of decency for the sheer need to pull the taller man close, wedging a leg between the other’s thighs, marveling in the way his companion all but keens into the touch.

No, he can’t think about the what if’s and the should have’s—all he can concentrate on is how Meis practically purrs into his mouth, tongue roaming, teeth nipping against his bottom lip. They part almost as quickly as they came together, chests heaving, eyes searching. Meis latches a finger into the loop of Gueira’s belt, twirls a strand of hair with his free hand and waits.

“Home, now.” It’s Gueira’s turn to speak, desperation oozing from his tone, in the way he tugs upon a slender wrist, placing a tender kiss to the other’s palm.

Neither thinks to find their companions before hurrying out the main doors, Gueira practically chasing Meis’s heels, the makings of much needed laughter bubbling up from deep within his chest.


	2. Sugar, we're going down Swinging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . . . . there are times when, beyond life and death, the past and present seemingly morph together
> 
> And, above all else, he wants to BURN . . . . yearns for the sensation of embers upon his skin . . .
> 
> . . . . he desires to feel alive. . . . to feel needed . . . wanted—whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has become a monster....  
> Please note that I've edited the tags, just to play it safe, and I've also upped the chapter count. Mentions of self-harm, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and one very touch starved, pining, third in command (and possibly an equally pining second).

_‘You could have died! Don’t tell me not to worry!’_

_‘But I didn’t, I’m right here . . .’_

_. . . . . there are times when, above all else, everything seems to shatter and fray . . ._

_when his own life appears meaningless amidst the everyday chaos_

_gone are the voices . . . ._

_the sense of longing, needing, existing to burn and burn alone . . . ._

_‘You couldn’t see yourself all hooked up . . . .’_

_. . . . . there are times when, beyond life and death, the past and present seemingly morph together_

_darkened trails converging into hellish nightmares . . ._

_And, above all else, he wants to BURN . . . . yearns for the sensation of embers upon his skin . . ._

_fiery kindles beckoning him forward, welcoming, accepting of all that he is and isn’t_

_. . . . he desires to feel alive. . . . to feel needed . . . wanted—whole_

_‘If I’d have lost you . . . .’_

_Nothing can stop the lilting hitch in his tone—the way he sways despite being grounded on the living room couch. Nothing can put an end to the voices, so very different yet hauntingly similar to his former flames, their nonexistent please plaguing his every waking moment._

_‘If you’d have lost me . . .?’_

_‘I just . . .’ He feels himself shutting down, clocking out, head pooling and tossing around unneeded thoughts. Feels himself sinking ever so slowly despite knowing there are always hands to hold him up. There will always be someone there to catch him when he falls . . ._

_‘Meis, look at me.’_

_For once, he doesn’t look._

_The sheer amount of heated conversations, countless moments in which he’d held his tongue, opting to take another drawn out breath from a cheap cigarette rather than confront the other head on, are like endless pages to an unfinished book. **Their** unfinished book. He builds and builds his walls only for them to collapse, rinse dry and repeat until even he can’t remember just how many times they’ve fought (discussed) their lives before and after the Parnassus. Before and after they had power, before he felt like he could scream into the night sky, combusting to his heart’s content. After he could barely stand let alone conjure up the needed warmth to remain happy—safe._

_He’s tired, lost—above all else, afraid._

_‘What do you think the news is gonna be?’_

_They’re sat on the living room couch, dull hum of the television drowning out their thoughts, or lack thereof, when they see the headliner._

_Kray Foresight has been released from prison—all charges dropped, no questions asked, no words given._

_There’s a clatter of utensils, coffee mug falling haphazardly to the floor, the sound of hurried footsteps pounding down the hallway and the distinct beating of the bathroom door as it slams shut._

_He knows his life will never be the same from that day forward. And he’s never felt such rage, bile poisoning his throat from the inside out, hands clutching his chest as every piece of his sanity seemingly breaks._ _He’d been naïve to think their tormentor would remain behind closed bars—naïve to assume that money didn’t always speak volume compared to justice._

“You can’t leave me . . . !”

Meis’s voice, barely above a whisper, scratches the back of his throat, forcing him to gasp. Dried up tears and sweat stick to his cheeks, dusting over darkened eyelashes, mingling alongside tattered bangs. He chances to look at the heap of blankets to his right, tufts of red poking out from underneath, uneven motion signaling his companion’s peaceful slumber. Any other night and Meis would plaster himself to the redhead’s back, stealing every ounce of warmth the shorter man possessed, tonight, however, he finds himself remaining mindful of their closeness—mindful of the fact that he’s striped down to his boxers while the other feels, oddly, naked.

A growing heat has locked itself inside his chest, remnants of his companion having given him so much, and then some, throughout the night. And Meis knows, should he happen to set free such raw emotions, that sparks will light up the room the second he opens himself up. The very moment he chances to appear vulnerable, surely he will combust. And he wants, god does he want to, even if it means embarrassing himself in the early morning hours—even if it means waking up the redhead sleeping peacefully beside him.

_If I just . . . ._

Hesitantly, he snakes his hands up, touches his neck with careful, feather soft, caresses, presses the blunt ends of his nails into semi-chilled flesh, and waits. Counts to three, calms his breathing, takes a steady gulp and concentrates on the sensation of each digit, every tiny pinprick of pressure easing its way through his being. Every sensation, numbing—the rate in which he digs his nails in hard, enough to draw miniature waves of heat, barely visible blemishes against a pale canvas, thrilling.

He wills himself to stop thinking, casts each lingering doubt from his mind with another desperate press of his fingers, exhaustion seizing him the minute his vision blurs. Despite everything, despite his (their) best efforts to forget, he’s managed yet another night of unwanted memories, guilt and regret surging forward to play alongside what little happiness he’s hoped to find upon waking up. What little desire that’s continued to coil within him.

_. . . always so pathetic . . . can’t even control yourself . . ._

Meis winces against the voices circling through his mind, balls his hand into a fist by his side, clenching plush sheets tight until his knuckles turn white. 

_. . . . no one would ever want someone as weak as you . . . no one . . ._

_And yet . . ._

_Each precious second plays out amidst vivid bursts of color, warmth, hurried touches jumbled between scattered thoughts and the sound of pleasant hums vibrating throughout his entire being the moment chapped lips meet his skin. He feels full, a sense of unhindered belonging taking root deep within his core at the thought of being cherished—of being needed once more. What he assumed to be deeply buried emotions, the what if’s and could have’s that he’s fought so hard to forget, burst forth between each kiss, each playful nip to sensitive skin, every soothing effort that comes after._

_‘Tell me if I’m hurting you.’ Gueira’s tone, honey sweet (far too warm for someone that lost every ounce of their flame), carries low and pleasant to his ears, enough to make him squirm._

_‘If any of this makes you uncomfortable.’ The softest trail of teeth across Meis’s chin, nibbling ever so carefully upon his bottom lip until he all but opens up, swallowing each breath, every hitched moan that chances to escape between them._

_Meis shudders beneath the weight of his companion, a bundle of pent up nerves and passion nestling itself deep within his chest. Latches an arm about the other’s shoulders and tugs, drawing the redhead closer until their hips knock together and their legs slot between the others. What little words he chances to mutter all but vanish the minute he lifts himself up just right, pushing against the other in what he hopes to be a welcoming gesture. He can’t, however, help his brows from furrowing, or the subtle way his breath catches, hesitant._

_‘Meis,’ a flash of concern ghosts across the redhead’s face, hooded eyes searching through clouds of darkened bangs, lingering on the way in which Meis all but splays his fingers across his mouth, partially parted lips beckoning him forward until their noses touch. ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful.’_

_He means it, too, Meis can tell from the way his eyes glisten, lips curling into a blinding grin meant for him, alone. In the way he places unsteady hands upon either side of Meis’s cheeks, cupping his chin gently, tilting at just the right angle, index finger tracing over plush lips, prying until Meis relents with a heated sigh._

_And, unlike Gueira’s brash, rambunctious, personality, the shorter man takes control with unbearably slow, open mouthed kisses, languid strokes of his tongue, coaxing and prodding, all forms of desperation set aside for teasing out the harshest of sounds from his companion. The faintest of shudders in Meis’s breath._

_Calloused hands traverse Meis’s body from head to toe, playfully teasing across his chest, pinching out the smallest of sounds from between his lips, mapping a path straight down to his hips. Gueira hesitates, fingers teetering along the thinnest line of blue tinted hairs, barely touching zigzagging marks that run up and down the slender man’s stomach._

_There’s an unspoken truth filtering between them, one that has Meis’s heart seizing and Gueira’s lips quirking in honest determination._

_Meis caves._

“Shit . . .”

Meis lets a series of quick, throaty, moans escape from between his lips, softening his voice to the best of his ability so as not to wake his companion. He’s long since forgotten what exactly it is he needs, opting for the sheer satisfaction of getting himself off to a mere memory from the night before, alone. The taste of dried up spit, morning breath and alcohol consume him, pulling him back into a state of mind numbing darkness, one he must fight back in order to concentrate. His body gives, and he is more than willing to take.

Glancing towards the clock, he squints against a self-induced haze, vaguely catching the number three—feels the ache of tender muscles crying from being pushed too soon, winces as his entire body spasms. Lowering his hands, relishing in the notion that he’s about to leave his own marks, he makes to brush his fingers over his stomach, his hips, tracing the delicate curves of his body straight down to rest between his legs. The makings of a blush spread across his face, heated yet oddly pleasant, illuminating pale skin to an almost peachy tone. 

And, he can’t help but wonder exactly what it is he’s feeling (regret? desire?) as each second slowly slips by, free hand deftly toying with the front of his boxers, continuing the journey across thin fabric once more, teasing, smoothing over the junction between his legs, fingers running up (once), down (twice), squeezing with just the right amount of needed force until the smallest of wet spots forms, and he’s all but gone.

_you mean nothing to him without your flames . . ._

_. . . . he will leave you . . ._

_. . . . you are powerless to stop him . . . ._

He wants his clock to stop—wants time to help him forget that he’s undoubtedly damned himself. Cringes against the doubt ebbing its way into his mind, and rides the wave. 

“You’re awake?” Gueira’s voice, crackling with sleep, startles him back into reality. Whether the redhead has heard anything, he doesn’t say, merely lets semi tanned arms snake their way about a delicate waist, puffs of red trickling against a pale shoulder, mingling with midnight hues against the stark white pillow cases. Hints of heated breath tingle against Meis’s bare skin, seeping into his veins, shooting straight down to his core. He’s trembling, of this he is certain. “You smell good.” It doesn’t take long for the redhead to fall back to sleep, drool pooling against his companion’s shoulder the longer he keeps his head in place.

When Meis next wakes, it’s to the scent of freshly roasted coffee and the sight of Gueira in the kitchen wearing a “ _kiss the cook_ ” apron and possibly one of the brightest grins he’s ever witnessed upon the shorter man’s face.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

He lets his companion curl up behind him, arms tucking against his own, head coming to rest upon his shoulder. Let’s the slightest flickering of his heart become known the second Gueira places a quick peck to his cheek, gradually trailing a series of soft kisses down the curve of his neck. He needs this more than anything, and for once, finds himself wanting to accept whatever feelings he might have for the other, head on.

“Didn’t want to wake you, looked too peaceful.” Gueira, despite having woken up earlier, harbors a sleep laden tone, leisurely pressing another lazy kiss to Meis’s earlobe, worrying a golden stud earring between his teeth. “Could’ve slept in more, though, know you’ve been tired lately.” He lets his hand slip down to cradle the taller man’s waist, fingers splaying across his back, rubs gentle circles against a half visible spine.

The ease in which they instinctively mold together is unbearable.

“You made breakfast?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the only real distraction he has from the growing warmth taking root beneath the redhead’s hold. Meis cranes his neck, makes to brush aside tufts of midnight black hair, smells a pleasant mix of sugar and something meaty sizzling upon the stove and immediately regrets not having eaten much the day before. Gueira doesn’t respond, merely leads the other into their tiny living room, sets about getting plates and mugs, every so often flashing a cheeky grin in Meis’s direction.

He’s planning something, Meis can tell.

Gueira holds up the smallest of maps, squinting daggers at each path, every letter, jabs his finger into the center of what appears to be a children’s water zone, holds back a series of curses and relents to pulling on his hair in frustration. 

“This was supposed to be easy, fun, hell . . . . I can’t even see what part of the park we’re in on this thing.” He keeps his voice to a low growl, buries his face back into the map, eyebrows raising upon having the paper plucked away, flipped around until everything appears to make just a bit more sense.

“Reading it wrong, _Miami_.” Meis teases, visible eye gleaming mischief. He swats playfully at Gueira’s arm, draws back until he’s out of reach, wholehearted laughter filtering past his lips. “Never took you for an amusement park type of guy, though.” 

The mid-morning sun does wonders for his complexion, dusting his cheeks with the softest shades of yellow, lighting upon inky blue black hues till they glisten. He’s opted to keep his hair down, save for a dainty braid tucked behind his right ear, just enough to show off his studs and the undercut he mused over for how many months before finally getting. He draws his arms out, stretching, listens to the pop popping sounds of his elbows as he tilts this way and that, shifting his back. There’s a chill to the usually clammy air, a sign that has the taller man hoping that the summer heat might soon be gone—that they can walk without feeling as if their entire bodies are once more consumed by flames. 

“Boss said they’re running a bit late.”

The familiar presence of his partner as he sidesteps over, casually linking their arms together before pulling him towards a series of food stands, makes Meis’s heart swell and clench all at once.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when, much to Gueira’s displeasure, the pair never show up—something wrong at the station, emergency call, the story goes between the two until the redhead all but chucks his phone into his back pocket, scrunching the paper map between closed fists. He casts a wayward glance in Meis’s direction, zones in on the faintest of grins, laugh lines barely visible around his eyes and mouth. The way he doesn’t quite catch his stare until last minute, hints of recognition taking over his entire stance—his very aura glowing.

The sight, for lack of a better word, is breathtaking.

And, nothing can prepare him for the sheer amount of force with which the dark haired man clings to his arm upon their first go round on the roller coaster, shrieking into the deafening silence of wind and sky. Or the look of pure delight that overtakes his expression the minute Gueira suggests they get the largest tub of ice cream available, every flavor, every topping.

_‘You’re in love with him.’ The first time Lio mentions such a thing, lips quirking into a half smirk, he has to focus hard on not spitting his coffee out and onto the floor. ‘I was the same with Galo, you know this, back and forth until one of us had to cave.’ He waves a dainty hand, brushing back lime blonde bangs, fiery lavender hues concentrating hard on the once second in the command._

_‘Meis’s a bit more unique, though.’_

_'_ _I can’t mess this up, Boss, not with him, you know that.’ Gueira whispers, fidgeting in place upon the couch, latches his fingers through Lio’s, holds their hands in place and squeezes tight. ‘We never talked about any of this before,’ he takes a much needed gulp of air, concentrates on the way the smaller man has taken to rubbing circles across his wrist. ‘I can’t risk having him hate me, hell, I’d go insane if he did.’ His entire body quakes, shoulders stiffening._

_‘What makes you think you’ll lose him?’_

_‘I could say the same thing, what makes **you** think I won’t?’_

_Lio sighs, kicks his legs up onto the table, directs his gaze to the television. ‘Gueira,’ his tone is soft, and he goes back to idly tracing the redhead’s veins with the pad of his thumb. ‘You really don’t see how he looks at you?’ There’s concern lacing his words, in the way he takes to chewing his bottom lip, eyes searching his companion’s expression for an answer he knows he may not get._

_Gueira falls oddly silent, deflating against the couch cushions, free hand running up to swish through unruly red hues. ‘I just don’t know, Boss. Meis is, special, I can’t ruin the idea of an us.’_

_‘Have I ever lied to you, Gueira?’_

Gueira has, and always will be, the rambunctious, overly clingy, type. Even during his early years he’d been the first to make a scene, and the last to get caught, always seeking out those who least expected his company—effectively latching onto them until not a day went by when they weren’t together. Meeting Meis, fiery eyed, quiet yet oddly endearing, Meis, had been the highlight of the redhead’s existence prior to kindling his flames (maybe even the highlight of his entire life). He’d been hellbent on getting the other’s attention from day one, the very moment he locked eyes on the taller man from halfway across the station—the very second he felt a smoldering sensation burning bright from within his chest.

And he knew, damn did he know, that he wanted—needed—to be part of the man’s life from that day forward, even if it killed him. Even if they hated each other.

_‘You come here often?’_

_The sheer look of confusion—utter shock and disbelief— despite the man letting out a gut busting laugh, hands coming to rest against his stomach, entire body shaking, takes the redhead by surprise. ‘This is a tram station, so yes, I come here quite often.’_

_‘Really? I do, too.’_

_‘No shit, you do.’_

When Gueira felt his entire world crumbling, shifting from beneath his feet, every ounce of his being hurtling towards the unknown, he turned to the silent man for support, desperately needing human contact to soothe the never ending heat—the pressure of voices building within his mind.

He hadn’t expected the other to barrel down the same path, hadn’t expected their lives to converge at such an alarming rate.

_‘Gueira, I think I’m . . . .’ Meis had burned a vibrant purple, vivid blues blending between each flame, engulfing his slender body in bitter light. He’d clasped his hands together in front of his chest, all jagged edges and harsh gasps, a mixture of wonder and pain flashing across his face, and merely howled into the night sky._

_Shit, shit, shit . . . ._

He’s running late, his meeting with Galo having gone over far into the night. He takes the stairs to their apartment in two leaps, dashing down the hall until he can slam the front door behind himself.

The lights are dimmed when he closes the door, chucking his jacket towards the hamper, barely managing to get his shoes off before slipping on the puddles he’s created upon their entryway floor. Forecast hadn’t called for rain, his luck that it would.

“I’m home!”

Everything is dark when he sets foot within their shared bedroom, curtains closed, sheets tossed to the floor. The only sign of the other, existing, is that of a single thread of color seeping out from the bathroom.

“Meis?”

Gueira, for all that it’s worth, has taken to focusing on the smallest of touches, the way in which the dark haired man lingers by his side whenever they go out—the lack of heat he feels when they’re apart, and the way in which his body all but sings when they kiss.

And, they do, kiss. Everyday. From the moment Meis wakes up to the second Gueira clamors into bed, snuggling against the taller man’s side, drawing him close to worry bruises against pale skin. They’ve just not put words to anything, yet. And it’s that thought, the notion that their little game can backfire at any moment, can hurt one of them beyond belief, that has the redhead feeling defenseless for once in his life.

“ _Meis?_ ” He goes towards that faint glow, pausing only in the doorway to observe, hints of his conversation with Galo playing through his mind, before breaching the gap.

Meis runs the water scalding hot, breaths in the steam, lets the moisture ease his muscles and frizz out his hair as it trails against his back, clinging to dampened skin. His neck aches from having pressed too hard, still fresh bruises splattering his jugular. 

“Got room for one more?”

He stills upon hearing the redhead enter, turns rigid upon the sense of unease filtering through the other’s voice. He doesn’t decline, however.

Droplets of water trickle down Meis’s skin, pooling beneath his feet on the tiled floor, smoke billowing in a halo around his head. He gives the slightest of nudges to the redhead’s side when he enters, leans ever so carefully into his space until his head rests against the other’s chest, stray droplets easing down the length of his neck. 

“Welcome home.” He mouths a sigh into peach tinted skin, lets his lips trace over the curve of his companion’s collarbone, pausing only to take in the scent of cinnamon and vanilla, and rain. “Was starting to think Galo had kidnapped you.” 

Gueira wrings his hands together, sets his gaze on the far side wall, lets a steady breath puff out his cheeks, inward, outward, one two and three. “Promise me you won’t,” he trails off, gaze lowering, finds interest in anything but the man leaning against him. “Promise me you won’t come to hate me after this.” There’s an edge to his tone, in the way each word shudders, dies out before becoming anything other than a mere whisper. 

“Wait, you mean he actually _tried_ to kidnap you?” 

“ _Meis_ ,” another gulp of air, tentative hands finding their way to draw the other’s chin up, eyes searching, frantic. “I think I’m in love with you.”

The faucet runs cold. Everything shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! My anxiety is through the roof.....  
> As always, comments are welcome.... 
> 
> Please come scream with me about these lovely boys . . . ;.;  
> 


	3. Carry your Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, he finds himself at peace, whole, because he knows . . . should he wake to darkened thoughts, that the redhead will be with him to chase whatever insecurities he has, away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the letter "E"! If I can even manage to give these boys some form of love, then I will be happy ;.; if they seem out of character, I apologize, my mind just works in weird ways.

_‘You ever wonder where we’ll be in like, thirty years from now?’ It’s after a particularly harsh raid, they’re banged up, exhausted, worse for wear, when Gueira plops them both down onto the makeshift futon, shifting just enough so that their knees knock. ‘Like, will we even **be** around in thirty years?’ The second in command leans back, brushes a hand through his hair, lets stray embers ease out from his fingertips, hisses between his teeth as the familiar sensation coils up his entire arm._

_‘Together, I’d imagine, though you might wanna ask again in thirty years.’ Meis’s tone is soft, vibrating through his palm as he places it, steady, upon the redhead’s cheek. ‘You never know, you could hate me by that point.’ He chuckles, visibly shaking from the sweetness of the sound, an almost shocking gesture that has the second in command’s eyes widening. Hints of vivid purple trickle from Meis’s fingers, blending, dancing against vibrant orange hues until it all dissolves into one. He leans back, tucks his free arm beneath his head, watches as their embers crackle in the smallest of spaces between them._

_‘Where do **you** want to be in thirty years?’_

_Gueira latches their hands together, allows the flames to grow, simmering and surging—thriving within the darkness of their shared space. ‘Somewhere safe,’ he pauses, turns to the side to stare directly at the other, catches his breath upon seeing midnight blue teasing against darkened lashes. His chest clenches, tight, the thrumming of his flame deafening as it bursts into newfound life. ‘An apartment would be nice, hell, a house even. You, me, Boss . . .’_

_‘And if Boss finds someone else, then what?’ Meis is quick to tighten his hold, running delicate circles over the curve of Gueira’s palm. He draws the other’s fingers to rest below his chin, blows a series of tiny, lavender, pinpricks over his companion’s knuckles, the faintest of grins lingering upon his lips._

_‘Well, then I guess it’s just you and me. You did say through thick and thin.’_

_They fall into comfortable silence, listening to the remainder of the group outside, hushed whispers and elongated good nights signaling the end to another tiring day._

_‘Gueira?’ Meis jostles, tone a breathy sigh, ‘I think we should . . .’_

_‘You guys are still awake?’ It’s Lio that breaks their conversation apart, noting how they immediately put space between themselves, flames dissipating the second he pokes his head between the curtains. And yet, he knows—can swear on his life—that they’d been touching, can tell from how their cheeks brighten—how Gueira all but scowls, and how Meis falls oddly silent, scanning the expanse of the small room, expression borderline timid._

_‘Did I interrupt something?’_

_Lio knows his Generals more than anything, has witnessed them both at their darkest of hours (their highs and lows), and he finds himself wanting nothing more than to linger, to see them at peace, together. To know they’re all right despite everything going against them. He’s quick to draw back, however, tone softening, look of understanding flashing across his face. Even he understands when he’s overstepped his boundaries._

_‘Don’t stay up too late, we’ve got an early morning, tomorrow.’_

_And, if they stay up till the wee hours of morning, whispering back and forth amidst their flames, they refuse to let their exhaustion show._

There’s a time and a place for everything—a moment to speak, a second to adjust, minutes to express one’s darkest fears and truths. There are days when, despite knowing the past has long since turned to ash, the once third in command cannot keep his mind from wandering, cannot stop the thoughts from pouring forth—from violating his every waking moment, and some spent asleep. On such days, he finds himself lethargic, unable to comprehend what’s up from down—unable to justify the reasoning behind having survived being shoved into a pod. He finds himself lost.

Meis wills himself to breathe.

He prays for the water to heat up, scalding beyond belief, so that whatever hints of crimson have blossomed upon his face will appear normal. His skin prickles, tension thrumming through his veins, hyper aware of every little motion, every intake of breath, every lack of understanding to that which his companion has just confessed. He vaguely registers the second his back hits the wall, legs trembling, daring him to fall forward though he does his best to hold strong.

“You think you . . .” Meis’s voice sounds foreign, gravely, far too harsh for his liking and it pains him to hear himself speak—sets a growing lump within his chest, his throat, tightening the air from his lungs. “ . . . _love_ me?” He can’t help but bite out every word, teeth gritting around each letter, tongue heavy. He feels faint, queasy, head swirling despite the sudden chill.

_How am I supposed to react?_

_He’s lying . . . ._

_Why wait until now to say anything . . .?_

_why wait until you’re vulnerable . . . ._

“Did Boss put you up to this?” An inkling of irritation oozes into Meis’s tone, hands clenching against his sides, nails digging into his palms. He shifts ever so slightly, ever so carefully repositioning himself between the onslaught of water and the shower curtain, readies himself to leave should the situation call for it. “Gueira, please . . . did he tell you how I . . .”

The last thing Gueira expects is for the other’s gaze to harden, for him to fall back until he’s barely within arm’s reach, chilled water draining around his feet, entire body shivering though he doubts it’s from the cold. Gueira watches as his best friend, his companion, his partner, wraps lanky arms about his waist, grounding himself in place, cringing as if having been slapped clear across the face. Watches as the stoic, ever calculating, stable pillar of his life seemingly goes silent, realization dawning in the way his visible eye widens. 

“Pretend you didn’t . . .” Meis’s voice shakes, cuts deep to the bone.

“Why would . . .” Something inside clicks, forces Gueira to falter, ever so slowly latching onto what little Meis has said, to the way the taller man has paled far beyond his usual color. “Boss has nothing to do with this, I promise.” He grasps at thin air with desperate fingers, fumbles for the right words, lowers his head as if defeated. “Meis, I just . . . with you, I . . .” He can’t help but feel as if he’s losing the battle, as if no matter what he may or may not say will fall on deaf ears. 

He can’t help but feel useless.

“Thirty years from now, remember?” Barely a whisper, Gueira’s voice sounds thick with raw emotion building up from the pit of his stomach, itching to escape behind heated tears, “we’ll still be together.” 

He speaks into the silence of the shower, Meis having brushed past, barely reaching for a towel before slamming the bathroom door shut. He lets cool droplets hammer his skin like Freeze Force bullets, slams his fists against the tile and merely sinks to the floor, cursing heated insults into his palm.

He feels lost.

Gueira gives himself an hour of wallowing, of letting the water run until he can’t feel his fingers or toes—until he has to fumble aimlessly for his towel with shaking hands. Takes to staring at himself in the mirror, the way his cheeks have gone pale, eyes puffy with circles matching the color of his hair. He’s left with a sensation of gutlessness, of being incomplete, of wanting to hear what the other had hoped to say—of somehow already _knowing_. Because, despite knowing Meis like the back of his hand, he’s never witnessed such an expression of sheer fear, hopelessness and vulnerability—never felt such an utter lack of trust radiating from the other’s aura.

He’s never felt so alone.

Slamming his palms down, hard, onto the bathroom counter, he takes another lingering glance at himself in the mirror—at the black etchings of his tattoo, the way in which he can see where Meis had messed up, backtracking along the curvature of intricate lines, only to plow forward. He lifts his hand, runs his fingers over each line, focuses on everything and nothing.

The sound of his phone pinging draws him back to reality.

The swing sits heavy beneath him, cool metal handles digging into his palms as he sways back and forth, slowly, letting the heels of his feet cut into browning grass. A chill has eased itself into the night air, gentle breeze bristling what little trees surround the once crowded park, teasing against midnight blue tresses, jostling stray strands against his cheeks. He buries his chin into the collar of his shirt, picking up the edges to wrap loosely about his neck, breathing in the scent of pine detergent.

_What the hell am I thinking . . . acting like a little child, running away . . ._

_It’s his fault . . . for remembering . . . his fault for trying to get so close_

_. . . he succeeded though . . . you’re better off since he has . . ._

_you didn’t have to open up to him . . ._

_. . . but you did . ._

_‘Through thick and thin.’ They’d given each other semi matching tattoos later that night, huddled against the back-light of orange violet flames, snickering while redrawing lines here and there, making sure that (when seen together) the entire world would know their combined power._

“Shit.”

Meis’s stomach hurts, doubt churning, forcing poison into his lungs, burning the inside of his throat, coursing through the entirety of his veins like fire. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, tracing salted paths down his nose, sticking to his eyelashes until he’s forced to scrape balled upped fists against tender skin. Gueira’s expression, the way his eyes had widened in pain, fear, but most of all a look of sheer loss has all but burned itself deep into his mind. The thought that, for once, he can very well lose the one person he cares most about—the reason he’s continued to push forward with each new day—has him taking a shuddering gulp of air, tension filtering in and out.

_‘Thirty years from now, remember?’_

A ~~stupid~~ promise they’d sworn blood and flames on, an unspoken vow they’d created while on the run—while not knowing if the other would see the light of day, again—something he has since managed to take advantage of, and then some.

_‘Gueira, I think we should talk about us.’ The one thing he’d hoped to say that night, the one thing stopping him from moving forward. The overpowering desire to admit that which he fought so hard to keep tucked inside, ‘Because, I want there to be, an us, that is.’_

He’d been far too quick to run, too accustomed to the idea of being unwanted (despite all odds pointing in the opposite direction), had not expected that, without a doubt, the redhead would effectively break down his barriers one by one.

And, he let him. 

Little by little, he’d let the once second in command become a part of his life, relishing in the secret times spent together while part of Mad Burnish, hoping beyond belief that they’d never have to hide, again.

Meis had no sooner let him in. And promptly walked him right back out.

He kicks his feet into the dirt, swings himself a bit higher, lets the night air whoosh against his face, no longer caring if he’s seen crying, alone, in the middle of a park at nearly midnight. He does this a few more times, until he’s certain he can’t cry any longer, digs the heels of his feet into the grass and comes to an abrupt stop, hands clenching around metal chains.

“Boss said I might find you here.”

Metal chains shake within Meis’s grasp, the sound of boots scrunching over gravel, squishing into dampened grass, coming to rest within the shadow of a children’s swing set, set his entire body on high alert. Gueira’s voice, reaching his ears ever so slowly, vibrates down his spine, jolts him awake, alert.

“This swing taken?” 

The redhead sidesteps over, question falling heavy within the air, makes to grab one of the chains, and stops. There are angry, fresh, tears streaming down Meis’s face, lips curling between gasps, hands frantically wiping away each new wave, desperately attempting to keep what little sense of composure he has, left.

“Oh, _Meis_.” And, it’s the way Gueira’s voice tightens, the way he all but deflates upon seeing the other so worse for wear, that sends the raven haired man into another fit of tears. “Meis, Meis, _Meis_ . . . let it out.”

There are slender arms wrapping about the taller man’s shoulders, the feeling of warmth seeping into his back as Gueira draws close, plants a kiss to water streaked eyelashes, smooths calloused hands through darkened hues. “You ran off so quick,” he’s speaking into the other’s neck, lips brushing across flushed skin, cursing the day he couldn’t find it within himself to merely run—to chase after his companion long before the other could escape. “Talk to me, _Dallas_.”

“You know I can’t . . .” Meis grits each word out between clenched teeth, heaves snot and tears into his shirt sleeve, finds himself slowly leaning back into the other’s touch, reveling in the warmth despite not wanting to appear weak. “Where would I even start? With the nightmares, with how I see you dying in the pod, alone and afraid, how I feel you slipping away even though you’re right next to me?” He stumbles, raises an unsteady hand to brush aside his bangs, the makings of an aged scar peeking out behind dim blue black layers.

Every wall collapses, shatters. Gueira’s hold tightens.

“That I’ve felt useless for the past year, that Boss getting married has me horrified that he’s slipping away, that you . . .” Meis’s eye widens, no longer hiding the flow of steady tears, the way his cheeks have turned blotchy, rosy. He sags against the redhead’s sturdy hold, lets his head lull onto the shorter man’s chest, looks up and is met with pinched eyebrows, watery eyes.

“That you’ll somehow grow to hate me, even though I can never seem to hate you, quite the opposite really. That I _love_ you so much, my chest hurts.” He takes a ragged breath, licks his lips. “I was fucked up before all of this, Gueira, now . . . now I’m not sure what I am, anymore.” Meis deflates, no longer attempting to wipe away his tears, rather letting them flow freely, sinking into the fabric of his jeans.

Gueira remains silent, reverts back to casually running his hands through darkened hair, pulling here and there at the smallest of knots.

The swing tilts, Meis pushing back against Gueira’s hold, forcing the redhead to lean forward.

“Well?” He waits, tone shifting, searches his companion’s expression and finds nothing but unyielding warmth radiating from his gaze, his aura.

“Well, I think for starters,” Gueira speaks close to Meis’s ear, grins as the taller man shivers against his chest. “I meant what I said back at home, Meis.” He steals a kiss to the other’s forehead, molds his body close until he can feel every endless shudder, every intake of breath, subtle yet so full of emotion. “Just the thought of you not being with me, fuck, it scares me beyond belief.” Another chaste kiss to a slender neck, jawline, hovering mere inches from partially parted lips.

“I want you to be happy, to feel safe in your own skin, to not assume you have to run every time your mind wanders.” He lowers his voice, sweeps aside stray strands of red, gives the dark haired man his full attention, “I want you to need me, Meis. To trust me.”

“And if I can’t . . .?” 

Meis focuses on Gueira’s mouth, every slight movement, the way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, lingering a second longer, teasing. Fixates on the gentle circles being rubbed against his back, the way Gueira’s lips seal almost perfectly against his own, stealing what little thoughts he’s buried deep, away.

“If I’m no longer worthy of your trust . . ?”

“I think,” Gueira pulls back, lopsided grin upon his face, “no, I know, you’re worthy.” He presses closer still, secures his hold around the other’s waist, buries his face into the crook of Meis’s shoulder, mouths a silent plea into chilled skin.

“You’ve always been the only one for me.”

They end up walking the length of the park, looping around twice before heading towards a small pond near the far corner. Gueira checks his phone, notes the time, 1:00am, wraps his free arm around Meis’s waist and pulls the taller man close, inwardly cheering upon feeling the other’s hand upon his hip. 

Moonlight filters over the expanse of water, dancing pinpricks of color mimicking flames, illuminating vibrant greens off a vast patch of moss. The sound of crickets chirping mixing alongside their heavy footsteps, deafening.

At 1:00am the world is theirs and theirs, alone.

Gueira hunkers down into the grass, curls his hands beneath his head, stares up into the night sky, lets a silent breath puff out between his lips.

“Remember back when we used to share our flames?” He speaks into the darkness, tone soft. “Yours would always shy away, but once it merged with mine, damn if they didn’t make the prettiest color, ever.”

Meis collects himself, shuffles down beside the redhead, immediately nestles against his side until his head rests upon the other’s chest.

“How long. . .?” He doesn’t have to finish the question, can feel the answer beating hard beneath his ear, knows by the way Gueira’s arms instinctively come down to cradle him, tender, dangerously soft.

“I could ask the same of you.” Gueira glances down at the mass of dark hair, plants a kiss just above his companion’s ear. “You haven’t exactly been honest with me, either.”

They lapse into silence, Meis playing with strands of grass, Gueira rubbing circles up and down his companion’s back, fingers gradually pushing up and under fabric to fall against his spine. He presses another kiss to the raven’s ear, lingers, nips playfully against his bottom lobe.

“When did we start misunderstanding each other?” Gueira eases his hands down, speaks into the mess of black blue hair, curls his fingers into the tiny crease of Meis’s back. 

“It’s cold.” Meis pauses, whispers against the collar of Gueira’s shirt, lets his fingers trail up and down his companion’s side before hooking into this belt loop. 

“I’m cold.”

“I might have a cure for that.”

They’ve barely made it past the front door, barely had the time to chuck off their shoes, let alone flick the light switch, before Meis’s back hits the wall and every ounce of breath he’s been holding seemingly puffs out from between half parted lips, caught within a searing kiss.

For once, he’s had time to properly think about where they stand, apart—together—everything in between. Has found himself hoping beyond hope that whatever this is between them won’t just become a mere fling, because for once he wants— _craves_ —something tangible, something only they can share and understand, together.

They were— ** _are_** —partners, and the notion that he would willingly die for Gueira, beautiful—reckless—Gueira, was a realization he’d been quick to latch on to. Has truthfully never let go of, if he’s being honest.

And so he waits, nerves jittering beneath his skin, mind racing. He waits as Gueira’s lips move against his own, crushing, needy, before pulling back, panting. Glossy eyes search the expanse of Meis’s face, tracing the slightest of frowns with a tenderness he’s only ever shown to the once third in command. He waits as the redhead shifts ever so slightly, hips knocking against his own, knee coming up to rest between his legs at just the right angle, forcing Meis to bite his own lip, the taste of metal lingering upon his tongue as he all but chews too deep.

“ _Hey_.” Gueira’s voice flows smooth like liquid, lips dusting over his neck, tongue darting out to tease playfully against pale skin.

Tension threads its way through Meis’s veins, waging war, wreaking havoc, effectively destroying him from the inside out. His entire body hums, imaginary flames shooting up from the pits of his stomach, pushing his senses into overload. He feels the unique, overpowering, sensation of wanting to combust, to let the entirety of his soul pour forth, sucks in a breath at the thought. Leans into Gueira’s touch, pushes into the friction of his knee, hears the softest of sighs bubbling up.

Gueira lets a heated laugh escape between them, moves his hands to card through the puffy mess of red he calls hair, fixes his companion with a lopsided grin, eyes sparkling. The air around him sings with an intense energy, oddly calming, forever captivating, and Meis can’t help but be pulled in by his unique charm.

“Still cold?”

And just like that, Meis keens, hands latching onto semi-broad shoulders, tracing the patterns of an aged sweater jacket, eager and certain.

Gueira’s weight, the way he all but slots their bodies together just right, eager hands seeking inky blue black hues before lingering feather light at the nape of a slender neck, sets what little of a spark Meis has left, ablaze. 

“You have to tell me what you want, Meis.” Gueira pauses, considers his options going forward, smooths a finger across the sharp edges of his companion’s collarbone. “You’ve got to guide me, here.”

Meis swallows, hard.

He’s been in love for so long, albeit in denial for far longer than he can remember, unable to voice even the smallest of confessions without calling himself a failure, without fearing that one small setback could potentially harm thousands. Has grown accustomed to the fact that neither had time to actually _act_ in the past _._ The urge to protect their people, Lio for that matter, always having outweighed their need for personal pleasures by leaps and bounds. He’s learned, through countless sessions of trial and error, to bottle his feelings up long before being given the chance to understand why his chest hurt whenever he saw that one perfect shade of red bouncing into focus. 

Why he could hardly take his eyes off his companion during Freeze Force raids, why the boisterous man’s eagerness to get into fights sent Meis’s mind racing, the need to protect flaring each time the other received a blow head on.

Why his mind reels whenever thinking about the redhead going off with someone other than himself.

“What I want?” When Meis finally speaks his tone is a mixture of throaty desire, pent up energy, and an emotion the shorter man can’t quite place, but desperately wants to. He takes a moment to ease some space between them, eyes the somewhat doubtful expression blossoming upon his companion’s face, works around the smallest of lumps forming within his throat before leaning forward to rest his head against the redhead’s shoulder.

“You. Us. I want a lot, Gueira, but asking that of anyone, especially you, would be too much.”

He lets the words linger, breath ghosting across the nape of Gueira’s neck. Feels his companion’s muscles tighten, his breath hitch. Waits to be pushed away.

“If I were to become a burden to you . . .”

“When have I ever not been able to handle you, Meis?” It’s an honest, innocent, question. One that has the redhead stuttering. “Hell, I’m pretty sure I was made to handle you.” He’s got a cheeky grin forming upon his face, vibrant eyes sparkling with a mischief he hasn’t quite felt since being part of Mad Burnish.

“And, if not, then I’ll make myself into someone that can.” 

He finds himself laughing, throwing caution to the wind, peppering a trail of frantic kisses to the raven’s pulse point, teeth scraping against semi flushed skin, worrying the smallest of bruises to appear. There’s a growing heat, a pleasant hum of friction, taking root deep within his stomach, coiling upwards to land dangerously close to his heart. A smoldering sensation, even without the Promare, that threatens to snuff out every coherent thought he hopes to muster. 

He’d be naïve not to admit that he hasn’t woken late into the night, mind racing, chasing back pleasure dreams of the dark haired man, of them together in every aspect of the word. He can count the times when he’s been jostled awake by the feeling of lithe arms about his waist, blueish black tendrils covering his shoulder and pillow, the calmest of expressions upon his companion’s face. Can trace his way back to the exact hours he’s spent trying to calm himself down, afterwards. 

The trust, desire, he feels in such moments is overwhelming. 

“I’m not so sure you should be, someone that really sees me, that is.”

“Try me, _Dallas_.”

Gueira lets his fingers trickle down, teasing over the tips of Meis’s ears, heated skin and slender wrists, straight to land upon the dip of Meis’s back, right above his hips—presses firm and sure upon the tiniest inkling of skin that peeks out, thumb rubbing ever so slightly underneath the waistline of his companion’s skinny jeans. His heart hiccups, stuttering hard against his chest, and he _wants_ —fuck, does he _want_. Fire bristles behind his gaze, dark hues pooling with an uncanny light that threatens to tear him apart limb by limb. 

And it takes him a minute to realize that Meis has gone still within his hold, pupil blown wide, chest heaving.

“Meis?”

Delicate hands grasp the expanse of Gueira’s back, fingers smoothing over plush fabric, nails digging deep into the curve between the redhead’s shoulders. He realizes a moment too late that he’s managed to push himself flush against the other’s chest, charcoal tinted gaze seeking out fiery hues. A silent question runs between them, Meis’s tongue darting out to lick against his bottom lip, gaze smoldering yet oddly reserved. 

“Shut up and kiss me, Gueira.”

Meis hoists himself up onto the balls of his feet, hands splaying out on either side of the redhead’s thighs, fingers itching to touch, nails pressing in deep to semi tanned skin, hips working in just the right fashion to illicit a choked out moan from between his companion’s lips. He’s striped himself down to his boxers, tied his hair back in a loose fitting bun, uneven strands framing his face, visible eye blown wide with years of pent up need. He puffs his cheeks, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, draws a steady breath in, holds it till his head swims.

Gueira is quick to reach out, tracing shaky fingers through unruly bangs, brushing aside the darkened canvas of hair to rest against an aged scar. Inwardly curses the day he’d been unable to stop someone from hurting the other.

Feels heat blossom within his cheeks the second Meis leans into his touch, the instant he nuzzles against his open palm. 

The redhead makes to sit up, yearns to trace each jagged line with overdue kisses, relents the second slender hips dip down, electricity coursing through his veins the minute he feels Meis’s cock brush against his own. Teeth clenching, he threads his fingers through blue black strands, pulls Meis down hard till their noses bump. Until he can brush his lips over the very scar he’d touched mere seconds before.

He starts slow, kisses a trail from Meis’s scar down to his chin, worries a bruise to the underside of Meis’s throat, pausing only upon hearing a hissed out sigh coming from his companion.

“Don’t stop. . . .”

There are slender arms coming to rest on either side of his head, plush lips parting to welcome him inside, and he can’t help but push up and into the other’s space, earning a sharp intake of breath. Gueira breathes life into his companion, tongue soothing, playfully tracing pointed teeth.

And, when he does happen to part, it’s to the sight of his companion heaving, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth, face flushed. He keeps his hips arched just enough to continue pressing into the growing bulge between Meis’s legs, rocks ever so carefully to the beat of his companion’s heart thrumming against his chest. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?” He emphasizes his question with an elongated push of his hips, free arm snaking around to coax calloused fingers inside his companion’s boxers, fingers curling around Meis’s length, heated and heavy, thumbing over the tip with ease.

“You’re beautiful, _Meis_.”

Meis comes undone, shuddering, gasping for air, murmuring Gueira’s name like a prayer into the back of his hand.

His bun has long since unraveled, blue black ghosting across softened pillows, made sticky from sweat. He keens into the other’s touch, feels the unyielding sensation of heat scissoring deep inside, pressure spreading him thin the further his companion’s fingers thrust. He pushes against the feeling, lets his hips rock ever so slowly in time with each caress. His entire body is on fire, raw, desperate and hot, sweat and saliva mixing, teeth biting down onto the back of his hand when one particularly pleasurable curling of fingers has him seeing stars.

Gueira hovers above him, peppering bruises—deep, vibrant, rainbows that have him grinning—across the expanse of his companion’s chest. He pauses only to run his tongue over a perked nipple, taking the bud into his mouth, sucking gently until Meis writhes beneath him. He relishes in the low pitched hums, the way the dark haired man folds into his touch, swallowing him whole from the inside out, fighting back the urge to moan loud and harsh.

“Gueira, please . . .” It’s the first time Meis has spoken, tone a gentle lilt, lips plump from kissing, bruised and tender. He mewls as the redhead pushes one more finger inside, teasing, relentlessly easing in and out only to push back in, harder, faster, drawing out another wave of breathy sighs. He lazily reaches up, cups the shorter man’s chin between unsteady hands, draws him down to hungrily latch their lips together just as his mind flashes white. 

Everything seems to slow down, giving way to heightened awareness of their surroundings, nerves working on overdrive as they grasp at each other for fear of vanishing. The only coherent sounds those of drawn out moans, softened sighs, the creaking of their aged bed as sheets crumple beneath their shared grasp. Gueira is the first to break away, the first to ease off the edge of the bed, glancing back at Meis with a knowing look—he whispers under his breath as he walks towards the closet, shuffles around before returning with a small bottle.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

They’re a bundle of pent up nerves, a wave of unrelenting energy waiting to burst—they’re hesitant yet hopeful, Meis reaching out to pull Gueira down into a tender kiss, whispering words of encouragement as the redhead slowly, carefully, eases in.

“Meis, focus on me.”

Despite knowing it will hurt, Meis still gasps out, clenches his teeth, sweat beading upon his forehead, dampening blue black hues, heat coursing through his veins. He grapples with the bedsheets, tugging till his knuckles turn white, pupil blown wide. He can feel his body stretching, can tell the second Gueira enters, dull burn seeping through his skin, distracting yet oddly pleasant. Instinctively wraps his legs about the shorter man’s back, toes curling.

“Hu . . .rts . . .” 

“I’ve got you, relax.” And, Gueira is quick to run a hand through darkened bangs, soothing, coaxing, warm. “You’re perfect, Meis.” He’s whispering into the darkness, easing out only to push back in, only halfway breaching the distance between them, marveling in the way his companion clenches around him, accepting.

“Easy, _love_.”

Meis’s breath hitches, throat constricting around a guttural moan, entire body thrumming the second Gueira bottoms out, gaze focusing on him and him alone. The feeling of being whole, full, consumes him, brings him to roll against Gueira’s hips, the motion quick, testing. 

Their rhythm reflects their fighting, Gueira a heap of passion ready to boil over, hips working in quick snapping motions, slowing only to ease himself halfway out before quickly pushing back in. He licks a trail down the expanse of Meis’s neck, bites against his Adam’s apple, tastes blood the second his lips pull away—the instant he registers his companion’s frantic breathing, the way in which curved hips push back upon his own, how a delicate hand fists against the sheets, the other raising to cover his lips.

Meis whines into his palm, shudders with each heightened thrust, every inkling of fire burning its way through his veins, pooling in the pit of his stomach. Makes to run his hands over Gueira’s back, nails biting into the skin near his waist, pink trails scraping up the expanse towards his neck.

“ _Faster . . ._ ”

Gueira falters, gathers the other up against his chest, foreheads bumping, fingers latching beneath Meis’s hips, tilts back until he has a full view of semi toned abs, heaving chest and perk nipples. Watches with glossed over eyes as Meis positions himself, tongue darting out, hair sticking to his cheeks, cascading over his shoulders, dampened, unkempt. Waits as the other slowly eases back down over his cock, gasping, taking him whole with one careful thrust that sends shivers down his spine.

And, if Gueira thought Meis was beautiful before, his entire view morphs into one of complete yearning, possessive nature pouring out the second the dark haired man takes his hand, places it over his member, casually leaning back, slowly pulling up only to come down hard, bottoming out with a harsh moan.

They draw their time together, out, neither wanting to finish—to feel the chill of being apart. Gueira’s hand is warm, firm, smoothing over Meis’s tip with sickeningly sweet strokes, pumping in tune to the uneven thrusts of his hips. When Meis comes, body buckling, jolting against a wave of white, he can’t help but not care how loud his voice sounds within the darkness. 

How his body instinctively clenches around Gueira’s length, feels him swell, frantic breath catching within his throat.

How he welcomes the warmth spreading deep inside, how Gueira’s hand reaches out to caress his cheek, whispered words of praise upon his lips.

The blankets are warm beneath him, Gueira’s arms wrapped tight about his waist, legs curled about his own in a protective embrace. He rests his head on the shorter man’s chest, twirls his finger through the baby hairs around his neck, places a chaste kiss above his heart. His companion has long since fallen asleep, muttering incoherent sentences under his breath, though Meis would be naïve to say that he doesn’t find such a display, adorable. He checks the clock, raises his free hand to wipe away what little sweat remains upon his forehead, positions his legs to lock about the others in a tangled mess.

For once, he feels full. For once, when he closes his eye to the darkness, he doesn’t suffer from nightmares of the past. 

For once, he finds himself at peace, whole, because he knows . . . should he wake to darkened thoughts, that the redhead will be with him to chase whatever insecurities he has, away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the members of the Gueimei group for shooting around headcanons and for listening to my own endless rambling about this two idiots. It helps having others who are on the same page <3
> 
> THANK YOU once again to Jellybean and Kura, and Seo....for letting me ramble in a channel not even meant for this damn series...and for looking over a few sections that I honestly am still a bit weary over.
> 
> I'm still not sure what I feel about this chapter....but...no going back now, that's all she wrote.... I sincerely hope that I did these boys justice....

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance for anything that seems wonky or out of place, literal mouth garbage being spewed....  
> Being in lockdown does weird things to a person >_< stay safe, ya'all . . .
> 
> come scream with me on tumblr @Dreua  
> or on twitter @mirroredhell


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